


Don't Cry, Eds

by Electra_Heart



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, but also fluff dw, lowkey angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 02:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10504761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electra_Heart/pseuds/Electra_Heart
Summary: Richie bandages Eddie up. Mild feelings ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY THE NEW TRAILER THAT DROPPED HAS ME SO FUCKED UP MY BRAIN WONT WORK END MY LIFE FUCK. I am shooketh.  
> Also, have a teeny tiny little richie/eddie drabble.   
> This takes place after the rock fight, in which Eddie gets his chin nicked by Henry's dangerous projectile pebbles.   
> fuck you henry.

   The two of them bask under the flickering, yellowish light. 30 watt bathroom bulb ambiance. Eddie perches on the edge of the bathroom counter. His knobby knees are shaking, his pale fingers and red knuckles clutching the edge of the porcelain. Richie is digging around in the cabinet. The sounds of bottles clinking and boxes shuffling paint the room with their music.   
    "Aha!," Richie pops up, holding a glass container. Milky liquid sloshes inside of it, and Eddie's stomach turns. He hates being patched up, all the stinging and fussing of it. He knows from the brown color of the glass that Richie is holding the hydrogen peroxide. At least that one doesn't burn as much as the rubbing alcohol does.   
     Richie pushes Eddie's knees apart, and stands between his legs as he reaches for the box of cotton balls. His hair tickles the side of Eddie's neck.    
    He douses a thick wad of cotton with enough peroxide to leave it dripping. Eddie gulps as he watches Richie hold it up to the buttery light, as if he's about to smack Eddie in the face with it.   
     He feels Richie's fingers pressing to his jawline, tilting his head.    
    Eddie clenches his jaw and pulls his face away reluctantly.   
    "Aw, come on, Eds. You and I both know an infection is way worse than a little peroxide," Richie coaxes. He's not doing any voices. Just a regular, soft Richie voice.   
    "Fine," Eddie grumbles, and though he's pouting, he lets Richie take hold of him and come close. Their faces are near enough that Eddie can see the gold bits in the irises of Richie's focused eyes. Richie's left hand is steady and firm on the meat of Eddie's thigh, while his right hand approaches Eddie's bashed up chin with the peroxide-soaked cotton.   
     Eddie's world is a mess of anxiety.   
    "Ready, Eddie?"   
    Eddie nods.   
    Richie dabs the gash on Eddie's chin. The movement is careful, but Eddie jerks away with a hiss.   
     "Sorry!," Richie winces, absentmindedly rubbing circles into Eddie's thigh with the pad of his thumb. Comforting Eddie is a reflex at this point.   
    Eddie shakes his head and leans forward.   
     "Try again," he instructs, determined to get this over with.   
    "You sure, Eds?," Richie cocks his head like a confused, albeit concerned puppy.   
    Eddie nods, too overstimulated to tell Richie not to call him 'Eds'.   
    "Okay." Richie leans in again, brandishing the disinfectant.    
    Eddie recoils instinctively, but he lets Richie do it this time, trying to focus on other things. The warmth that is pooling in his belly from having Richie close, the flowery, faded pattern on the floor tiles, the smell of old blood and dirt.   
    Despite his best efforts, he whimpers as Richie presses a band-aid over the freshly cleaned wound.   
      "I'm sorry, Eddie," Richie mumbles. He sounds uncharacteristically introspective.   
    Eddie doesn't notice the tears welling in his eyes until Richie swipes them away. He's not crying cause it hurts – he's crying cause he's tired. Because children should be able to live their lives without fighting monsters and getting their chins smashed up by kids like Henry Bowers.    
    At least he doesn't have to feel weird about crying in front of Richie.    
    Richie, who's leaning forward, Richie, who doesn't have a serious bone in his body, Richie, who is pressing a kiss to Eddie's bandaged chin.   
    "Don't cry, Eds...," Richie says, and he sounds weirdly pained. This only makes Eddie sob harder, like an enormous baby. He can't help thinking of his mother's impending reaction, how Richie's kindness and softness feels so nice. How lucky and fleeting he feels to be the one getting kissed on the chin by Richie Tozier. Dumb, annoying, wonderful Richie.    
    He presses his face into Richie's shoulder, taking a shuddering breath. Richie's arms circle around him.   
    And they stay like that under the flickering, yellowish light.


End file.
